


'tis the season

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Baking, Christmas traditions, Gen, Misunderstandings, batfamily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 00:19:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13088478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: In which Damian ruins Alfred's Christmas tradition, and entirely fails to make it up to him.





	'tis the season

It’s December 21st. Damian is in the Cave, ignoring his oldest brother’s protests (“–it’s way too cold down there at this time of year, Dami! Unless you want to get pneumonia so I have an excuse to cuddle you?” Damian had shut the door in his face.).  
  
“What is it, Pennyworth?” He only half-slides out from under the car, enough to pull off his goggles partway and meet the butler’s gaze.  
  
“Master Damian,” Alfred says, setting down a tray. There’s a steaming cup of cocoa and some sort of snack. “It is something of a… tradition in this household that the youngest member of the family assists me in baking Christmas biscuits.”  
  
Damian raises a single eyebrow. He doesn’t speak.  
  
“I feel I don’t have to remind you that, currently, you are–”  
  
“I follow the train of thought,” Damian interrupts sharply. “ _Ridiculous_ as it may be.”  
  
“Tradition is tradition, Master Damian.”  
  
“Tradition is _moronic_ , Pennyworth. The perpetuation of idiotic behaviours for no better reason than having done it before.” He snaps his goggles back on with a ‘Tt’, and slides back under the car. “Don’t hold your breath awaiting my appearance.”  
  
After a few moments of silence, Damian hears Alfred’s retreating steps. Satisfied, he returns to his work.  
  
–  
  
That evening, Tim and Dick sit in the living room. Tim is typing at his laptop, a vague frown of concentration on his face and Dick’s feet in his lap. Every few minutes, Tim huffs and shoves them off, but whenever he returns to his work, Dick, grinning, sneaks them slowly back. A movie is playing, but Tim is absorbed with his work, and Dick is absorbed in his one-sided game.  
  
“Hey, Damian,” Dick smiles when he enters. “Come sit?”  
  
Tim, looking up when Damian entered, realises again that Dick’s feet are uncomfortably close to his keyboard. “ _Dick_ , can you not do that?” he demands, shoving them again.  
  
Thoroughly unabashed, Dick grins at him, shuffles over to give Damian room on the couch.  
  
He huffs, crosses the room to sit on the chair instead.  
  
“So, kiddo,” Dick says, ignores Damian’s indignant scowl at the nickname. “How are you enjoying Christmas?”  
  
“It’s December 21st,” Damian tells him, annoyed, but Dick gives a delighted laugh.  
  
“Does that mean you’ve been keeping track with the chocolate calendar I got for you?”  
  
“It _means_ , Grayson,” he says, through gritted teeth. “That I can keep track of the date.”  
  
“You’re kind of a killjoy, Dami,” Dick says, long-suffering, and Tim shoves his feet so hard he nearly falls off the couch. Unperturbed, Dick continues, “I hope you weren’t this nasty to Alfie when you baked the cookies.”  
  
“ _Tt._ I am _hardly_ the baking type, Grayson.”  
  
At that, Tim looks up sharply, joining the conversation for the first time. “You did it anyway though, right?”  
  
Damian draws himself up haughtily. “Such duties are beneath me, Drake.”  
  
Dick and Tim stare at the ten year old. Dick rights himself on the couch at the same time as Tim snaps his laptop closed. “You little shit,” Tim says, slow. Disbelieving. “Why would you ruin Alfred’s Christmas?”  
  
Damian opens his mouth to respond. Closes it again. He’s not quite sure what to say, half expects Dick to stand up for him. Surely it was obvious that he hadn’t intended–  
  
Dick says flatly, “That tradition goes back to when Bruce was younger than you are now, Damian. Alfred has done it every year someone’s lived here.”  
  
Tim, shaking his head in something like disgust, leaves the room.  
  
Dick says, gentler now but still far from kind, “You really screwed up this time. You’re going to have to figure out some way to fix this.” He turns off the TV and leaves Damian, lost for words and alone.  
  
–  
  
Dick’s reading on his bed when his door bursts open.  
  
Damian, slightly out of breath and very pale, shuts the door behind him. He leans against the wall, wild-eyed, and stares at Dick, who raises his eyebrows and sets his book down.  
  
When Damian speaks, he won’t meet Dick’s gaze. “I,” he begins, licks his lips. “There was. A miscalculation.”  
  
“Damian!” Bruce’s roar is so full of fury, Dick flinches reflexively. Damian shrinks down against the wall. He closes his eyes and swallows, fists clenching and unclenching quickly. Then he opens the door and slinks out, back into the hall.  
  
“I– here, father,” he says, voice devoid of emotion.  
  
Dick gets up quietly, tries to make out Bruce’s words. Dick sticks his head into the hallway, hears the snarled, “–bad enough that you wouldn’t help him, Damian, but to actively _destroy_ his work? What did you think–”  
  
“Wait,” Dick interrupts, holding up a hand. “Damian, did you ruin Alfie’s baking?”  
  
“Stay out of this, Dick.”  
  
“Yes or no, Bruce,” Dick says, folding his arms and frowning.  
  
When Bruce offers no answer, Dick looks to Damian. A faint flush rises in his cheeks and he nods once, short and sharp. He’s faced away from his brother.  
  
“Bruce,” Dick says thoughtfully. “Sidebar?”  
  
“This isn’t a trial, Dick,” Bruce snaps, and they both ignore Damian’s mumble about executions. “And it’s none of your business.”  
  
Dick sighs. “It’ll just take a sec, B. Trust me.”  
  
Bruce turns to his youngest son, growls, “ _Don’t move_. We aren’t done.”  
  
When Dick glances back, the boy is staring after them, ramrod straight, lips pressed in a hard line. He’s trembling slightly when Bruce shuts the door to his study.  
  
“Before you get pissed,” Dick holds up a hand. “I have a good reason!”  
  
“Any time you want to share it.”  
  
Dick chews his lip. “I don’t think he meant it to be… as destructive as you think. Me and Tim gave him a really hard time yesterday about not joining Alfie’s baking tradition. I don’t think he knew what a big deal it was.”  
  
Bruce’s eyebrows have risen fractionally. “And so he destroyed the existing Christmas cookies?”  
  
“I’d guess he threw them out thinking that Alfie’d ask him to help again if they were gone, didn’t realise his mistake 'til it was too late.”  
  
Bruce’s lips contract. “That’s flawed logic if ever I’ve heard it.”  
  
“Can I plead _ten years old_? Did you see how guilty he feels? He called it a 'miscalculation’.”  
  
Bruce frowns, a little bit, but before he responds, there’s a distant voice in the hall. Bruce and Dick glance at one another.  
  
Dick darts to the door, wrestles the doorknob from Bruce’s hand, and he opens it a crack. Peers out, shrugging Bruce’s hand off his shoulder. Huffs when Bruce pushes his head down in order to see more clearly over the top of him.  
  
Alfred stands beside Damian, who’s fidgeting. It’s one of those rare times when the boy, usually so much older than his years, looks– acts– his age. His shoulders are slumped, his cheeks faintly pink. His fingers twitch in a familiar gesture (gripping imaginary weapons, anything to protect himself for whatever’s about to come), eyes focussed on the carpet. He’s uncharacteristically hesitant. “Pennyworth?”  
  
The butler’s voice is entirely even and absolutely neutral when he speaks. “Yes, Master Damian?”  
  
“I.” He scuffs a bare foot on the floor. Looks up, a little desperate but trying, as always, to hide it. “I wanted to apologise. For disposing of your baking.” His gaze drops, and he says, “And f-for speaking ill of the tradition. Initially. I didn’t mean. I wasn’t aware–”  
  
Alfred places a hand on his shoulder, and the boy looks up like a shot, eyes wide. “Well, young sir, I suppose you’ll just have to assist me in baking some more.”  
  
Damian’s face flickers between surprise, relief and… hope? before settling on something more neutral. He nods quickly. “Just tell me what to do, Pennyworth.”  
  
Alfred turns Damian around, leading him toward the kitchen with a smile. “I certainly shall, Master Damian.”  
  
When Dick and Bruce back up from the door (Dick tidying his now-mussed hair), there’s a moment of silence between them.  
  
Then Dick beams, so wide it crinkles his eyes, and he says, “So he’s not in trouble any more, right?”  
  
“Dick.”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Get out of my study.”  
  
–  
  
“Delicious, Alfred.”  
  
“Uh-hm, eey’re sursly 'eally–”  
  
“Master Richard, I feel as though I have spent my entire life reminding you to refrain from speaking with your mouth full.”  
  
“S'rry, Alf.”  
  
“However, I’m glad you’re enjoying them.”  
  
Dick swallows his colossal mouthful and grins. There is a crumb stuck to his lip. “Best ever, I think,” he says, and Damian absolutely does not go pink because _that would be ridiculous_. “You’ve really outdone yourself!”  
  
“Mm, I’ll say,” Tim says, from his spot at the bench. “Er, there isn’t arsenic in mine, right?”  
  
“Master Tim,” Alfred says sternly, while the Dick laughs and Damian rolls his eyes. “I would not allow such tomfoolery in my kitchen.”  
  
Dick, swiping another cookie from the tray, slides onto a seat beside Damian. There’s a stripe of something white and powdery on his face, a tribute to his baking success.  
  
“This’d better be flour and not cocaine,” Dick says, absently brushing it off with his thumb. He startles a laugh out of Damian, who shrugs off Dick’s hand and takes another bite of his cookie. “So,” a grin. “How are you enjoying Christmas?”  
  
Damian glances around the kitchen, _their_ kitchen, his home, feels something warm in his stomach that he doesn’t think is the cocoa. “I guess it’s not all bad, Grayson,” he concedes, quickly adds, “But it’s only December 22nd.”  
  
Dick smiles, nudges his shoulder. “Happy Christmas, D.”  
  
“Tt.”  
  
-END-

**Author's Note:**

> Also available on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/14238080227/tis-the-season-obligatory-christmas-fic)


End file.
